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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27813232">A Coliseum of Fireflies</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverr/pseuds/silverr'>silverr</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Characters of Unspecified Gender, Epithets for days, Experimental Style, Gen, Investigations, Magical Realism, Murder Mystery, Rashomon-style story, Subtext, Unreliable Narrator, Unspecified Setting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:22:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,765</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27813232</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverr/pseuds/silverr</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After a solar eclipse, the body of a king is found at the base of a mirrored ziggurat haunted by the ghost of a virtuoso. It is up to the Grand Verifier to untangle what happened.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fandom Trumps Hate 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Coliseum of Fireflies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedreaming/gifts">bluedreaming</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A thank you to <b>Katherine</b> for vetting the initial idea, and to <b>Sef</b> for beta.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>.</h3><p>.</p>
<h3>
  <em>The Groundling's Discovery </em>
</h3><p>In the land of J—, in the grand city of D—, in the center of the vast burial ground called the Fields of Internment, there is a massive ziggurat of silvered glass surrounded by miles of landscaped paths winding between gently rolling hills. Hour by hour, day or night, cloudy or star-speckled, the ziggurat captures the sky, only to toss it heavenward again in glittering angular sheaves. The overall impression is that anyone laid to rest in the Fields sleeps peacefully, their body cradled in the bosom of the earth, their soul released to the cosmos as stardust.</p><p>Groundling G658426's job was to trod the Field's paths between sunset and dawn: sweeping up stray windblown leaves, replacing burned out bulbs, ensuring that all signage was properly positioned, and giving a small, swift internment to any small creatures who had perished earlier in the day due to the misfortune of wandering across the boundaries and onto the walking paths.</p><p>Even on nights that followed those rare days when the Fields were closed the groundling walked the paths, performing their tasks without variation, for they knew their place.  For example, today the gates of the Fields had remained closed because of the occurrence of a Great Eclipse. Supervisor M71150 had explained that it was necessary to close the gates to prevent potential tragedies, but that Groundling G658426 was still expected to unlock the gates three hours after sunset and perform their usual duties.</p><p>And so it was that when the groundling came across the body of the king at the base of the ziggurat, they had no idea what to do, for they had never come across a dead king before. </p><p>Supervisor M71150 had never had a dead king reported to them, either, but fortunately they were slightly better situated to handle the situation. First they sat G658426 down with a strong cup of tea, and then they went off to call the Proper Authorities. </p><p>The Authority arrived at the cemetery in the form of Grand Verifier E396, who immediately sent M71150, G658426, and several Citadel assistants off to lock the gates and block off the paths around the ziggurat, and to set up torches around the perimeter so that they need not wait for dawn to begin the search for clues.</p><p>The king's body lay at the base of the ziggurat. He was dressed in stiff ceremonial robes that somewhat concealed the fragile brokenness of his bones and internal organs. His face was bruised and bloody, but around it his perfumed and oiled hair had arranged itself in perfect ripples. He wore several rings and heavy necklaces of gold, and had lost a shoe. Near him was the charred remains of a fur cloak, and the disconcerting angular shape of a broken typewriter. </p><p>The verifier, who was known for being very methodical,  noted that there was blood on the typewriter, although they did not assume that this was conclusively connected to the king's death.</p><p>After many images were taken, the body of the king, as well as the typewriter and the cloak, were carefully wrapped and removed with specially made gloves. Citadel assistants were posted all around the base of the ziggurat in case further examination of the scene was needed.</p><p>After being assured by M71150 that the king was the only one with access to the secret door that led to the apex of the ziggurat, the verifier had M71150 and all the groundlings taken to the Citadel to ensure the news of the king's death was temporarily kept secret from the general populace.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p>
<h3>
  <em> The Fabricators' Testimony </em>
</h3><p>The broken typewriter had a small plaque, and an unburned corner of the fur cloak a small tag, identifying the artisans who had made them, and so despite the lateness of the hour they were sent for.</p><p>The  master furrier and the master metalsmith arrived at the Offices of the Interrogators at nearly the same time. The grand Investigator noted with quiet amusement that the furrier was tall almost to the point of elongation, as lean and narrow as a typewriter key, while the metalsmith was short, rotund, and as hairy as a bear.</p><p>The grand verifier had the two escorted to an interview room. On the table in the room, a heavy official cloth covered the remains of the cloak and the typewriter. </p><p>Once the fabricators were seated at the interview table, the verifier waited until both had glanced apprehensively at least once at the lumpy cloth, then whisked it away.</p><p>The furrier gave a small, sad cry and reached out toward the cloak as if comforting it. "What has happened to you?"</p><p>"Did you create that item?" the verifier asked.</p><p>Tears were streaming freely down the furrier's face. After a moment they composed themself somewhat and nodded.  "Yes."</p><p>"For whom?"</p><p>The furrier glanced sidelong at the metalsmith, then said,  "I am sworn to protect the identities of my customers."</p><p>It was possible that sending the metalsmith away might convince the furrier to speak more freely, but also likely that such would be taken by the metalsmith as an insult: opening the furrier's door would slam the metalsmith's, as it were. "There has been a death," the verifier said carefully. "These items were found near the body. Answering my questions might help us discover the truth." </p><p>The verifier noted that neither fabricator looked surprised at the mention of death—they had been called to the Citadel of Truth, after all—but when the furrier opened their mouth as if to speak, the metalsmith made a disapproving noise.</p><p>The furrier pursed their lips, mildly offended. "Our first thought should ever be the welfare of our people, should it not?" they asked officiously. "Surely I will be excused if breaking my vow helps ensure that justice is done?" </p><p>The metalsmith gave the tiniest of shrugs.</p><p>"Some years ago there was a prophecy," the furrier began, "that at the time of a future occultation all fur rugs in our world would turn into kites."</p><p>The metalsmith snorted. "A cloak is not a rug." </p><p>Ignoring the metalsmith, the furrier continued, "The king saw that, while a kite before a fireplace inside a house was of limited use, if the prophecy was interpreted to apply to all fur, perhaps someone standing in a high place outdoors would be able to fly up into the sky and soar among the stars."</p><p>"It's ridiculous!" the metalsmith grumbled. "Why fur instead of silk or balsa wood or even thin sheets of lightweight metal? Those are far more aerodynamic!"</p><p>The verifier said to the metalsmith, "Need I remind you that I am conducting this interview?" </p><p>The metalsmith spread their hands and bowled slightly. "Of course. My apologies."</p><p>"Accepted," the verifier said, "yet you do raise a valid point. Why would the king pursue an action that defies logic?"</p><p>"If taken literally, perhaps," the furrier said loftily, launching a speech they'd obviously polished by frequent use. "But consider the figurative aspects. Fur represents our connection to earth. The geometry delicacy of a kite, lifted high by invisible winds, represents our aspirations, our yearning for transcendence. The coupling of the two is a reminder that, even as we turn our eyes to the stars, we must be mindful of our origin. Our animal nature." </p><p>"You led the king to believe that he would be borne up by mystical philosophy?" the verifier said coldly. </p><p>The furrier swallowed. "I am only a humble fabricator. Who was I to question a king?" </p><p>"Allowing someone to engage in a dangerous activity might be seen as willful negligence," the verifier said with uncharacteristic sharpness. "Did you give any thought to what would happen when the eclipse was over? When the kite became fur once again, and returned, as you put it, back to its origin?"</p><p>The furrier became pale.</p><p>The verifier, their burst of emotion suppressed, asked, "How was the cloak made?"</p><p>"The king decreed that his cloak be assembled from a thousand pieces of fur, but it was strictly forbidden to slaughter any animal for this purpose. We were to use only scraps caught on branches, or pelts from animals that had died peacefully in their sleep." The furrier touched the dappled corner again. "The souls of a thousand animals are here, blended into a mute choir in praise of the king's benevolent spirit."</p><p>The metalsmith harrumphed. "Souls are useless without communication."</p><p>"Communication?"</p><p>The metalsmith made an impatient sound. "I assume the deceased is the king. If his body was found near the ziggurat at the center of the Fields of Internment, then, whether or not he was attempting to <em> fly," </em> this last was said in a mocking tone, while leaning toward the furrier, "I assure you it is likely he was attempting to communicate with a preternatural entity at the time of his death." They nodded at the bloodied heap of twisted metal. "Using that."</p><p>"How is that possible?" the furrier asked. "It looks to be an ordinary typewriter."</p><p>The metalsmith chuckled disdainfully. "I wouldn't expect someone like you to see its transcendental aspects. it's no 'ordinary typewriter,' but an ethereal transcriber. A translation machine designed to allow the attuned user to speak to supernatural and preternatural beings."</p><p>The verifier added fraud to the list of the metalsmith's possibly actionable activities, then asked, "You made this translation machine for the king?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Is it unique?"</p><p>The metalsmith hesitated a fraction. "The form, no; the function, yes."</p><p>"You have made similar items for other customers?" </p><p>"Similar in form, not in function."</p><p>"I understand. This one allows—what phrase did you use? Communication with the unnatural?"</p><p>"Preternatural," the metalsmith said. "It allows the attuned user to speak with supernatural beings."</p><p>"Was the king attuned?"</p><p>The furrier's eyes had gone round with astonishment. "Oh, was he planning to speak to the Deity of the Eclipse about his lost love?" </p><p>The metalsmith, irritated that the furrier had stolen their thunder, folded their arms and continued to address their remarks to the verifier. "How familiar are you with the case of the virtuoso who disappeared during the last Great Occultation?" </p><p>The verifier wondered if all fabricators were incapable of giving brief answers; still, it was often instructive to hear what peculiar slant an interviewee brought to the facts. "Somewhat. Would you be so kind as to refresh my memory?"</p><p>"Of course. Many years ago, a series of public concerts were given at various locations within the Fields of Internment. For the final concert, scheduled during the hour leading up to the moment of totality, the musicians were placed atop the grand ziggurat. The symphony's crescendo was timed to coincide with totality, but, as the final chords began to swell, a swirling cloud descended and enveloped the top of the ziggurat in absolute darkness. Everyone in the vicinity was thrown into complete terror except the virtuoso, who continued to play on even without the rest of the orchestra. When the cloud at last withdrew with the return of the light, the virtuoso was gone. They have never been seen again."  The metalsmith nodded emphatically, as if they had delivered an important legal summation.</p><p>"Aie," the furrier said to the verifier, "I was there that day. So tragic, for someone so young and beautiful to be taken! Their spirit has haunted the ziggurat ever since."</p><p>The verifier reflected that civilians often could not distinguish between those facts that were pertinent to an investigation and those which were not. Still… it might be a thread worth tracing. Based on the stated purposes of the objects found next to his body, there might be connections between the king's death, the long-ago disappearance of the virtuoso, and possibly even the ghost. A verifier's task was their task to reveal these connections, however tenuous.</p><p>As no one had ever formally reported the virtuoso as missing—a curious omission in itself, perhaps?—and neither had their body ever been identified as a victim of foul play, their disappearance, while unsolved, had thus never been classified as a crime. However… if there was a chance that their fate was relevant to the death of the king, then the investigation needed to be re-opened. </p><p>"You say the virtuoso vanished after being surrounded by a cloud of darkness," the verifier said. "Is it possible they staged the disappearance to withdraw from public performance?" </p><p>"Hm." The metalsmith laced their fingers over their belly and thought for a moment. "Artists have done such things in the past," they said slowly, "but from a purely practical standpoint I would say it's impossible in this case." They shrugged, then added with an impertinent smile, "Of course, it is possible that the hundred thousand witnesses who were gathered around the ziggurat were mistaken in what they saw, or were bribed to lie." </p><p>The verifier picked up their pen and rolled it between their fingers. A pity someone as unlikeable as the metalsmith was unlikely to be guilty of the crimes at hand. "I see. What do you think happened?"</p><p>The metalsmith scowled thoughtfully. "Process of elimination, really. They could not have run away; they did not jump; there was no corpse by the piano. There was nowhere to hide without discovery. The only conjecture I've heard that makes any sense is that the dark cloud contained a corrosive agent that dissolved the virtuoso's body without a trace. "</p><p>The furrier was horrified. "Dissolved? No, no, they were carried away bodily! Unharmed!"</p><p>The metalsmith made a dismissive sound. "You contradict yourself, then. If they were carried away unharmed, how can they also be the ghost that haunts the ziggurat?"</p><p>"The divine Celestial Ones can do many things we cannot," the furrier snapped back. "It is reasonable that they could simultaneously carry off a person while leaving an echo of them behind!"</p><p>"The point is," the metalsmith said, addressing the verifier so pointedly that it was clear they wanted to once again cut the furrier out of the conversation, "the virtuoso had no motivation to run away. They and their music were universally adored." </p><p>"By everyone?" the verifier asked. </p><p>The metalsmith put a finger alongside their nose and gave a wink. "Yes, everyone. Especially by the king."</p><p>The furrier slapped the table. "How dare you make such a salacious remark! The king's love was pure!"</p><p>The metalsmith rolled their eyes.</p><p>"Why else would he commission the cloak, and your silly machine," the furrier asked hotly, "if not to fly up and plead with the gods?"</p><p>"The king would not spend the treasury's resources for personal gain," the metalsmith said. "Do you forget how often he said that his first love, his <em> only </em>love, is — was — of his people? More likely he planned to use the ethereal transcriber I built for him to make the Night Gods promise not to take any more of our people. "</p><p>"How could he accomplish that?" the furrier cried. "The Divine Ones are all powerful!"</p><p>"How am I to know?" the metalsmith snarled back. "I am not a king!"</p><p>"I suppose he might have wanted to find a way to appease the gods so that they would not take any more citizens," the furrier conceded at last, "but I am just as certain he would have used your machine to try to speak to the ghost of the one he loved in order to set them free!" They gave the typewriter a sour look. "And if it did not work he probably threw it off the ziggurat in despair because he could not communicate with his lost love."</p><p>"Are you insinuating—"</p><p>"—and then fell from the ziggurat, dead from a broken heart!"</p><p>"More likely he plunged to his death when his 'kite' failed to hold him aloft!" </p><p>After this fiery exchange, the fabricators sank down into their chairs, exhausted.</p><p>The verifier thanked them and sent them on their way.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p>
<h3>
  <em> The Music Teacher's Testimony  </em>
</h3><p>The virtuoso had no living family, so early the next morning the verifier called in the person who might have been expected to have known them well, their former music teacher. </p><p>Ancient, she shook constantly with a fine tremor, like a small leaf in a steady wind. She had retired from teaching after the loss of her most gifted student, but was nevertheless eager to talk about them. </p><p>"Oh, they could draw the very heavens down to earth," she said. "They thought of their keyboard as analogous to the electromagnetic spectrum. Claimed they echoed the dance of the cosmos. The interplay of the wavelengths." She shook harder for a moment, and the verifier realized that she was laughing. "I snatched them away from the astronomy department! Doctor Antoos has never forgiven me!" The laughter turned into a fit of coughing; after a moment, the teacher continued. "Yes, they had a wondrous telescope they kept at hand whenever they composed or played. It was with them always." </p><p>"Do you know who made it?"</p><p>The teacher named the atelier of the metalsmith. </p><p>The verifier made a note, then asked delicately, "There is a rumor that the ghost that haunts the ziggurat is said to be your former student. Spirits only linger when there is unfinished business; do you have any idea what your student's unfinished business might be?"</p><p>The teacher sank into thought, and was silent for so long that the verifier thought she had fallen asleep, but she did finally give a start and say, "Their dream was to unite heaven and earth through music. Perhaps they are now frustrated that without the ability to create music they cannot reach people anymore?"</p><p>The verifier nodded, then referred to their notes. "About that telescope… it too was missing after the virtuoso disappeared. Do you have any idea what happened to it?"</p><p>The old maestra shook her head. "Perhaps the gods took it at the same time?" She stood and began to move laboriously toward the door. "Or perhaps the ambassador knows? I've heard they have one very like it."</p><p>.</p><p>.</p>
<h3>
  <em> The Ambassador's First Testimony </em>
</h3><p>The ambassador had come from far away a long time ago. Originally a diplomatic liaison, he had grown to be both a trusted advisor—informally considered a member of the king's council—and a close personal friend of the king. Little was known about his personal life other than that he lived alone, had never taken a lover or engaged personal services, and had published several unsuccessful books of poetry.</p><p>The verifier, cognizant of the protocol of requesting an interview with such an esteemed person, sent an invitation and an escort to bring him to the Citadel as soon as possible. The Citadel guards were also given a sealed directive that allowed a search of the ambassador's residence.</p><p>The ambassador, a dour-faced man whose style of dress was surprisingly sumptuous, arrived furious. "Why am I subjected to these indignities?" he demanded. "My home invaded, and then I myself marched through the streets under the malicious scrutiny of the public eye? The king will hear of this!"</p><p>"My apologies, Ambassador," the verifier said, "but we needed to consult with you privately on an urgent matter of great delicacy."</p><p>Mollified, the ambassador settled back in his chair, folding his hands into his sleeves. "Of course. How can I help?"</p><p>"We are investigating a crime," the verifier said, "and are attempting to gather facts about potentially relevant events and items." </p><p>The verifier noted that the word 'items' caused a noticeable micro-response, but the ambassador said only, "And what is this crime?"</p><p>"Some years ago, a virtuoso disappeared from the apex of the ziggurat at the center of the Fields of Internment."</p><p>The ambassador went very still. "The ziggurat?"</p><p>"Yes." The verifier knew that, as a confidante of the king, the verifier had been present during that final concert, seated with the king just below the musicians. The ambassador's reactions thus far hinted at turmoil; should they be given the opportunity to lie? "Tell me what happened that day." </p><p>"It was so long ago," the ambassador said. "I don't recall details."</p><p>"Tell me what you do remember," the verifier urged.</p><p>"The king was there," the ambassador said slowly, staring down at their sleeves. This was behaviour that could be an honest attempt to recall, or it could be avoidance of the verifier's expert gaze. "The crowds below covered the hills like… " He was apparently unable to find an appropriate simile.</p><p>"What was the music like?" the verifier asked.</p><p>"I don't recall."</p><p>"Tell me about the virtuoso."</p><p>The ambassador looked up. A flash of irritation or disgust twisted their face for a moment, but was quickly suppressed. "Young. Attractive. I do not recall anything else in particular."</p><p>It was only the verifier's long years of experience that enabled them to perceive a faintly acrid tone in the ambassador's voice, a scent they were as drawn to follow as a tracking hound. "How did you feel about their disappearance?"</p><p>The ambassador clenched his jaw almost imperceptibly, and took even longer to answer. "In many ways it was a great loss," he said carefully, each word like a stone dropped into a fountain.</p><p>"And in other ways?" the verifier prompted.</p><p>The ambassador looked away.</p><p>"You are not being charged with a crime, ambassador," the verifier said softly. "I am simply gathering information. Your honesty might help me gain a fuller understanding of their character. A more balanced view." The verifier leaned forward slightly, and added, "I assure you, everything you say here is entirely confidential." </p><p>The ambassador's jaw and shoulders tensed further and then relaxed, indicating a  transitional moment. The verifier kept still. </p><p>"It is often a tragedy when a great artist is taken," the ambassador said stiffly. "Even so… even so, in other ways, their disappearance was a blessing. I am the only one who knew how much of a hold they had over him. How they manipulated him." Animus was beginning to take over the ambassador's face; his words had the rising inflection of a long suppressed confession. </p><p>"Over the king?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"So it was a relief when they were gone?"</p><p>The ambassador's eyes narrowed. "Insofar as my primary concern is the welfare of the kingdom and the king, yes, it was." He was warming to the topic, like an actor delivering a grand soliloquy. "No, I did not mourn them. I had in fact prayed that the night gods would do something to protect us, and so, at the time, I felt grateful. Condemn me if you must."</p><p>The verifier allowed the ambassador to settle for a moment, then asked, "You say 'at the time.' Has your feeling changed?"</p><p>"Yes. I have come to see that the gods of chaos have no concern with our welfare; only their own amusement."</p><p>Ah. "I do not understand."</p><p>"I thought once the distraction of the virtuoso's presence was gone the king would turn his attention back to governance. It did not." </p><p>"His grief prevented that?"</p><p>"Grief?" The word exploded out in a snarl of contempt. "I would not call it <em> grief. </em> Obsession, yes, and rage at being deprived of a possession. He became convinced that the ghost in the ziggurat was his lost love." </p><p>The last two words had been thick with resentment, but was it jealousy, envy, patriotism, or something else? "You wanted to protect the king," the verifier said. "It's admirable."</p><p>The ambassador made a disgusted sound. "Truthfully, it sometimes feels as though I must protect our world <em> from </em>him. My days are a constant struggle to keep his impulsiveness and vindictiveness contained." This admission appeared to discharge the last of his spleen; his energy receded as visibly as a shore left bare by a fast-ebbing tide. He rubbed his eyes and asked dully, "Is that all?"</p><p>The verifier noted the use of present tense; it seemed the ambassador did not yet know the king was dead. "For the moment. I know we interrupted your breakfast; do you wish something to eat or drink?"</p><p>"Just water, please." the ambassador said, putting his hands back into his sleeves.</p><p>The verifier went out into the hall. After requesting a water tray, they looked over the report of the search of the ambassador's residence.</p><p>One item of interest had been discovered.</p><p>The verifier returned to the room and resumed their seat. The Ambassador was staring moodily at the water carafe.</p><p>A moment later, the door opened and the assistants brought in a wheeled stand, on which a telescope was displayed.</p><p>As the old teacher had hinted — and the metalsmith had quickly confirmed — this was the very object that had belonged to the virtuoso. It was a masterpiece: its rare metals glowed in the dim light, and glints sparked from the enameled arabesques and constellations incised along its barrel. </p><p>The ambassador said, "You had no right to invade my privacy," but it was a rote objection, delivered without emotion.</p><p>"You know quite well that I do," the verifier replied, "but only in service of my search for truth. I do not judge. I only verify."</p><p>The ambassador looked at the telescope steadily for some time before answering. "Yes, it's theirs. Recognizing its value, I took it during the confusion following their disappearance. For safekeeping."</p><p>The verifier pretended to consider this, then asked, "For what purpose?"</p><p>The ambassador shifted uneasily. "To study it," he said at last. </p><p>"Why?" The verifier allowed genuine curiosity to color their question. </p><p>The question seemed to surprise the ambassador. They took a deep breath and said, "Because it's a fascinating instrument. A marvel of ethereal technology. Did you know that it enabled them to view the energy of celestial motion? It was that which they translated into music." He stared at the telescope with raw longing. "I have been trying for years to find a similar connection, that I might infuse my poetry with the same power."</p><p>"Curious that you seek this connection in a windowless room."</p><p>The ambassador continued to stare at the telescope, pressing his lips together and simultaneously growing both pale and flushed as a range of nano-emotions flickered across his face. "You said I was brought in on a matter of great urgency," he said at last, "yet this disappearance was years ago. Or do you feel an urgent need to arrest me for a decade-old theft?"</p><p>"The urgency relates to more recent events." The verifier displayed an image of the king's broken translation machine. "Where were you yesterday, ambassador?" </p><p>"Alone. I am always alone." He paused for a moment and pressed his lips together, as if fighting back tears. </p><p>If it was a performance, it was masterful.</p><p>"As you may know, all government offices were closed yesterday because of the eclipse," the ambassador continued. "I took advantage of the quiet to work on a difficult translation. And no, I doubt there were any witnesses."</p><p>"No one?" the verifier asked. "No one, the entire day?"</p><p>"Perhaps there were some other quiet mice like myself creeping about, but I neither saw nor heard them."</p><p>The verifier pretended to make a note. "Please continue."</p><p>"Having no wish to see another eclipse, I worked through the darkening and totality.  Shortly after the light had returned I left my office and headed home, stopping at a market to pick up food for my dinner—"</p><p>Already knowing the answer, the verifier asked, "You make purchases yourself? Why not send others to do such a lowly task?" </p><p>"I trust only myself to purchase and prepare my food,"  the ambassador said, giving a brief, tense smile. "Poisonings are rampant in the land of my birth; from childhood we are raised to be careful. Mistrust is a habit I have found impossible to break."</p><p>"I see. Go on."</p><p>"When I arrived home I worked on a translation for the king, prepared and ate my meager supper, bathed, then went up to my rooftop garden to read. I fell asleep in my chair; I was there all night." He looked at the verifier without blinking. "And no, there are no witnesses to any of that other than the harried grocer, who I doubt will remember me, and the sky, which cannot speak up on my behalf. It is a sad day indeed when a public servant such as myself is treated with such suspicion."</p><p>The verifier found the choice of words interesting. "What did you read?"</p><p>"Pardon?"</p><p>"The novel," the verifier said. "The one that put you to sleep?"</p><p>"Popular trash," he said. <em> "A Coliseum of Fireflies." </em></p><p>"Why are you reading it if you have such contempt for it?"</p><p>"I'm told the common people adore it," the ambassador said. "I read to understand how they think."</p><p>"Is there no part of it you enjoy?"</p><p>"No," he said, "I have not finished it, but so far I have disliked all that I have read." He stood. "Am I free to go?"</p><p>"Yes," the verifier said. "Assistant 7319 will—"</p><p>"I do not need an escort," the ambassador said. "I wish to be seen leaving the Citadel under my own volition, unescorted."</p><p>"As you wish."  </p><p>After the ambassador had left the verifier sat looking at the virtuoso's telescope. The gods of the night sky were too capricious to vouch for the ambassador—if indeed they had paid any attention to him—but perhaps there was another witness to the king's death…</p><p>.</p><p>.</p>
<h3>
  <em> The Testimony of the Spirits </em>
</h3><p>The verifier arrived at the Fields of Internment shortly before closing. The oblique rays of the late afternoon sun turned the lawns into a horde of tiny pikemen, grassy weapons pointing to the sky as they awaited the order to attack, and turned every pebble on the path into a minuscule comet with a shadowy tail.</p><p>The area around the crime scene at the base of the ziggurat was still roped off. As the verifier and the cohort of investigators turned down the path, the arc of curious cemetery-goers encrusting the cordon scattered, revealing a matronly older woman, dressed in swathes of green and with green hair, sitting calmly at the base of the ziggurat.</p><p>"We couldn't stop her!" one of the guards stammered as the verifier approached. "She said you were expecting her!"</p><p>The verifier raised a hand. "Yes, I did send for her." The metalsmith had said that repairing the ethereal transcriber could not be done quickly, if at all, so the verifier had decided to interview the virtuoso's ghost using a more traditional method. </p><p>Like many, this medium used an animal intermediary to connect to the world beyond, but unlike most, she insisted that only dogs were suitable for the task of communicating with spirits. "You can't use anything else," she proclaimed at every opportunity. "Goats are too skittish, birds and otters are too easily distracted, and cats can't be bothered. But a dog… a dog will keep at it until it's done."</p><p>She noticed the verifier. "At least <em> one </em>of us managed to get here on time."</p><p>The verifier, who secretly found the bluntness beneath the older woman's theatrical trappings refreshing, asked, "Where's your companion?"</p><p>"Around. Probably chasing squirrels or taking a shit. They'll be here when we're ready to start." She patted the ground. "Damp with blood. If that's who you want to talk to, he might not be here yet. Might have more important business elsewhere."</p><p>As intriguing as this statement was, the verifier put it aside for later consideration. "Actually I want to speak to a spirit we know is here."</p><p>"Oh. That one." The medium stood up with much grimacing and groaning and began to unfold a faded blanket embroidered with arcane symbols. "You want to know if they saw what happened here?"</p><p>"Yes," the verifier replied. </p><p>The medium spread the blanket so that one edge rested against the ziggurat, then began setting out crystals in the embroidered circles at each corner. "And if they don't want to talk about it?" </p><p>"Then I'll send for an oracle of the night gods to help us." The rivalry between the mediums and the oracles was well-established.</p><p>"Ha!" the medium scoffed. "Good luck with that!" Her preparation finished, she sat in the center of the blanket and whistled.</p><p>A tawny hound with green-streaked fur bounded out of a nearby bush. Playfulness marked them as not long out of puppyhood, but as soon as they stepped onto the blanket they were all business. They sat near the edge of the blanket facing the ziggurat, and barked softly once, their tail sweeping the blanket.</p><p>The medium put her hand on their back and made some low sounds — whether it was human speech or canine no one could say — and the dog became still.</p><p>Something began to rise from the ground and gather at the base of the ziggurat. Not thick enough to be called mist or ground fog, but slightly more substantial than could be explained by claiming it was only a shimmer of light on the polished stone.</p><p>"They have come," the medium said. "Ask quickly. They are fearful."</p><p>"Last night a man died here," the verifier said. "Did you see what happened? Was he alone, or was he attacked?"</p><p>"They saw nothing. They heard nothing. They felt no trembling."</p><p>The verifier sighed. "Would they then, perhaps, tell us what keeps them here? The mysterious circumstances of their disappearance?"</p><p>"They—"</p><p>The dog barked sharply, and jumped up to snap at the air.</p><p>A swirl of dark smoke was cascading down the side of the ziggurat; it poured over the thin mist, dispersing it. </p><p>The dog sat back and growled softly, then turned to face the medium, crouching low to the ground and shivering.</p><p>A vague face and body seemed to coalesce out of the smoke. "That was only a restless shadow," the face said in a reedy whisper. "Only I have the answers to the questions you ask."</p><p>The verifier understood. This now was the true spirit of the virtuoso. They bowed slightly and said,  "My apologies, supreme one. You are able to speak to me directly without a medium?"</p><p>"I am not as limited as the scraps chained to this place: I have no need for the woman or the dog. Why am I summoned?"</p><p>"To ask you what happened here," the verifier said carefully.</p><p>"Concerning the king and myself?" </p><p>As focused as the verifier was on the details of the previous day, it was important not to antagonize what might be the only witness to the king's death. "I am here to hear your story." </p><p>The smoke curled into tight swirls, perhaps indicating satisfaction. "What do you know of me?"</p><p>"Very little," the verifier said. "Only that you were a gifted musician and composer who took inspiration from the cosmos, and that your life was cut tragically short when you were abducted by the Night God of the Eclipse."</p><p>"Partly correct," the apparition said, "but I was not carried off like a helpless rabbit. I <em> chose </em>to transcend earth."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"To continue my art. Free of the possessiveness of the king."</p><p>"You were aware of his feelings?"</p><p>"Of course! He claimed —" here the smoke condensed into an angry clot that evoked a frown, "—he claimed we were soulmates, and professed to love me above all others. Yet how did he prove this supposed love after I was gone? By building a mausoleum of naked statues!"</p><p>"A concert hall would have done more to honor your memory," the verifier said. </p><p>"Precisely." The smoke expressed contentment again. "Where is my telescope?"</p><p>"Taken by the ambassador the day of your disappearance. For safekeeping."</p><p>"Is that what he told you? That he was safeguarding a priceless national treasure? More likely he thought it would allow him to have sexual intercourse with the alphabet! Tell me, does he still have it hidden away, or did he turn it over to a museum to be displayed?" the apparition demanded. "No, you needn't answer, because I already know the answer. The ambassador's mouth is always full of grand patriotic words, but under it all he twists with envy."</p><p>"Envy of what?"</p><p>The smoke roiled and curdled. "Everyone and everything. My talent, the king's power, the simple pleasures of the common people… He covets and hates it all. The only thing he truly cares about is his horrible poetry."</p><p>The verifier had no response to this. </p><p>"Why was the king here yesterday?" the apparition demanded. </p><p>So they had seen something. "Who?" the verifier asked</p><p>The apparition chuckled. "If you're not going to give anything away, why should I?"</p><p>Fair enough. "There was a prophecy that during yesterday's eclipse all fur rugs would turn into kites," the verifier said. "It seems the king wanted to fly up and convince the Deity of the Eclipse to return you to us."</p><p>"Did he think it would be so easy to communicate with a celestial being? What arrogance. And to plan a grandiose rescue without even bothering to ask if I wanted to return!"</p><p>"You don't?"</p><p>"Why would I, when I am freer to pursue my art now than I ever was in life? As the consort of a deity, I am one with the music of the heavens." The smoke was spreading out over the surface of the ziggurat, rippling around the apparition's face like a veil in the early evening breeze. "The king came here uninvited. I had no part in his death. Why do you question me?"</p><p>"I know you are an innocent in this," the verifier said, "but anything you can tell me about what you saw might help me piece together the truth." </p><p>"I was composing chord progressions based on the interaction of the corona with the aurora," the apparition said loftily, "and only glanced down now and again, but I did notice the king arriving as the eclipse was about to begin. Not long afterward I saw the ambassador with him: they were standing close to each other. Perhaps they were arguing. By the time the eclipse was over and the sky had lightened only the ambassador stood on the apex of the ziggurat, and then he was gone."</p><p>It was still possible, the verifier thought, that the king had jumped or fallen, but to that list should be added the possibility that he had been pushed or struck by the ambassador.</p><p>"Am I free to go?" the apparition asked impatiently.</p><p>"Yes," the verifier said. "You are free to go."</p><p>The smoke gathered into a column and shot into the sky. The dog barked; the medium slumped. "I hope you got what you needed," she said as the verifier helped her stand, "because I damn well won't go through that again!" She stomped off as she muttered to her dog, "Like someone tracking mud across my brain!"</p><p>The verifier sent two of the guards to see her safely home, and was about to send two more to bring the ambassador in for more questioning when he saw a figure in a hooded cloak hurrying toward him.</p><p>It was the ambassador.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p>
<h3>
  <em> The Ambassador's Second Testimony </em>
</h3><p>"Ambassador?"</p><p>"I thought you might be here," he said. "At the scene of the crime." He pulled his hood more tightly around his face. "I… I need to speak to you."</p><p>The verifier gestured to the Citadel guards to stay out of earshot, then waited for the ambassador's confession.</p><p>The ambassador glanced at the guards, then said quietly, "Since I spoke to you this morning I have been convulsed with guilt." He inhaled shakily. "I… was not entirely truthful. Yesterday, during the eclipse. I was here. With the king." He paused. "You don't look surprised."</p><p>"Tell me what happened."</p><p>The ambassador glanced at the ziggurat. "When the king told me he was commissioning the fur cloak and the ethereal transcriber, I thought it was simply a passing whim." </p><p>"So you knew what he intended to do with the cloak. Why did you not point out the folly of the idea?"</p><p> The ambassador smiled faintly. "In some ways the king was very like a child; forbidding anything only made it more desirable. As I didn't think he would actually be able to <em> use </em>the cloak — or the transcriber — for their intended purposes, all I did was advise against the use of public monies to pay for them." He swallowed. "But then, on the morning of the eclipse, I saw him leaving the palace with them."</p><p>"Alone? Without the royal guard?"</p><p>The ambassador shrugged. "He did so often. His praetorians always followed at a discreet distance until they knew his destination."</p><p>"What did you do?"</p><p>"I told him I was coming with him, and offered to carry the cloak. I thought at some opportune moment I would be able to cast it away, but the king did not relinquish it."</p><p>"You had no plans to prevent him from using the ethereal transcriber?"</p><p>"No, for without the ability to ascend, he could not speak to the Night Gods. He could not demand apotheosis." He snorted. "That was his true intent. Not to bargain for the return of the virtuoso, but to seize immortality for himself. And I couldn't allow that."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>The ambassador did not answer this, but continued with his story. "As the occultation began, I grabbed at a corner of the cloak and begged him not to go. He said my loyalty touched him, and while he kept a fierce grip on the cloak, he said that I could keep the transcriber as a gift."</p><p>"He went through all the trouble and expense of having it fabricated, only to give it away?"</p><p>The ambassador shrugged again. "Who can know the mind or heart of a king?" He looked away as if embarrassed. "As he tried to hand me the heavy machine with his free arm, he lost his balance and fell." The ambassador put one hand over his mouth, closed his eyes and shook his head. "I hurried down to the ground, but there was nothing I could do."</p><p>"You did not call out to anyone for assistance? Surely his protectors were still nearby."</p><p>"I — I was afraid. All I could think to do was to cover his body with the cloak and flee."</p><p>"After setting it ablaze?"</p><p>Shocked, the ambassador looked up, directly into the verifier's eyes. "No, that wasn't… I didn't… perhaps the cloak caught fire when his spirit flew up into the sky?"</p><p>"If you truly cared so much for the king, why didn't you try to stop him before he reached the top of the ziggurat?" the verifier asked. </p><p>"I couldn't!" The ambassador's nostrils flared with indignation. "You have no idea what he was like!"</p><p>"You were the only one who understood him?"</p><p>"Yes!" Astonishingly, the ambassador's tears and grief also read as genuine. "And now he's gone!"</p><p>"Please stay in the city, ambassador," the verifier said gently. "We may need to speak to you again."</p><p>.</p><p>.</p>
<h3>
  <em> The Oracle of the Deity </em>
</h3><p>The session with the medium and the conversation with the ambassador had taken what was left of the pre-sunset hours, and now twilight tinted the Fields with hues of purple and black.</p><p>The verifier and the remaining Citadel guards began to walk toward the front gates when they saw a group approaching.</p><p>Six temple guardians surrounded — at a respectful distance — a child dressed in silver-embroidered black velvet tunic and leggings. The child was still so young that she stopped to solemnly examine every pebble and flower along the path, but her identity was unmistakable.</p><p>She was an Oracle of the Night Gods.</p><p>The verifier and the Citadel guards went down on one knee and waited for her.</p><p>"You have heard the testimony of many," the oracle said, "yet you are still unsure."</p><p>"Only the Night Gods, who see all, can know the absolute truth."</p><p>"Flattery?" It was jarring, to hear this word spoken by a child. "Still, we are amused. Ask what you will. Brief questions only; we will answer until we bore of the game."</p><p>"Yesterday, during the eclipse — did you see the king?"</p><p>"An act of hubris; humans are always trying to escape to the heavens. Although… yes, perhaps we would have allowed him to fly up to us. Or make him trip on his robes."</p><p>"So he fell?"</p><p>The child laughed. "Most certainly."</p><p>"Did the ambassador push the king from the top of the ziggurat?"</p><p>"We grant the ambassador's prayers to punish him for asking."</p><p>"Is that why you took the virtuoso? Because the ambassador wished it?"</p><p>"That one hated people and wanted to be alone; it entertained us to indulge them. Then too, we wanted them to know that their telescope saw false."</p><p>"So did the ambassador kill the king?"</p><p>"There was no one of consequence on the ziggurat. Only a charnel wrap of animal souls, which we tossed into a fire to silence it."</p><p>.</p><p>.</p>
<h3>
  <em> The Coliseum of Fireflies </em>
</h3><p>Long ago, the Night Gods agreed that, once a year, they would reveal one mystery or truthfully answer one question to a single person. As there were always hundreds and at times thousands of petitioners for this boon, a method was needed of choosing who would be allowed to approach the oracle. </p><p>The first suggestion was to choose the questioner by combat, but this was rejected as it would only allow the physically strongest and most aggressive to receive answers.</p><p>The next suggestion was to gather all petitioners into the Coliseum, then release baskets of flower petals high above their heads while huge fans tossed the petals through the air like snow. Among all the blue and white and yellow petals would a single red, and it was thought that this would fall into the hand of the person with the clearest heart, and thus would the truth be found. All acknowledged that this would be a beautiful and poetic spectacle, but as there was no way to prevent people from cheating by smuggling in red dye, it was also rejected.</p><p>Finally it was decided that the best, fairest way was to gather blindfolded petitioners in the fields surrounding the Coliseum at twilight. Whoever brought the most fireflies to the pool at the center of the Coliseum — the fireflies had to be caught by hand, and remain alive until the were counted by the judges — would be judged the winner and thus allowed, in the water's reflection, to receive their answer.</p><p>The Grand Verifier stood at the entrance to the field, watching the blindfolded thousands running to and fro, bumping into each other as they snatched at what they could not see, swearing as they were knocked down and their tiny glowing captives were lost; and then the verifier smiled, and took a blindfold, and went through the gate to join them.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>
  <em>~ The End ~</em>
</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>
  <em><span class="small"><span class="small">First post 1 December 2020</span></span></em>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>When a request for a Rashomon-style story merged with the recipient's preference for magical realism, it led me to the <a href="https://twitter.com/MagicRealismBot">Magical Realism bot on twitter</a>.  I pulled down four tweets from February of 2020, kneaded them together, and called it a plot.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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